


hope your open sign is blinking still

by GingerAlchemy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Bars and Pubs, First Kiss, Friendship, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Office crush, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), partly the rest is just pining in various places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24762823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAlchemy/pseuds/GingerAlchemy
Summary: The harmless crush hadn’t taken Martin by surprise. At all. He knows his own weaknesses, and the day he’d first set eyes on Jon, he’d seen every last one of them glaring back at him. But as he steps into the pub on the unremarkable Thursday night on which he will fall in love, he’s thinking about fate.Jon, on the other hand, is thinking about how soon he can reasonably leave the pub.The next four years? An exercise in bad timing.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Basira Hussain, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 112
Kudos: 475





	1. Chapter 1

The harmless crush hadn’t taken Martin by surprise. At all. He knows his own weaknesses, and the day he’d first set eyes on Jon, he’d seen every last one of them glaring back at him. 

But as he steps into the pub on the unremarkable Thursday night on which he will fall in love, he’s thinking about fate. About coincidence. About the thousand red strings that tie him to this windy Thursday in front of this warm pub. About hopeless causes.

His newest hopeless cause, of course, sits at the bar stiffly, tapping his fingers against it one by one. He looks bored out of his mind. He also looks _good_. He’s taken off his coat, which leaves him in rolled up shirtsleeves, tie, and a waistcoat that nearly no one can pull off. On most other people, it looks too fussy. On Jon, it looks like a suit modeling gig. Martin takes a deep breath and struggles to adjust to the sudden heat of the pub. 

Next to Jon at the bar, Tim and Sasha lean against each other, laughing. When they spot Martin, they wave him over sloppily.

“You’re late!” Sasha shouts.

“Sorry, had some things to finish up at work!” 

Martin slips into the seat Sasha left for him, even though, to both his dismay and relief, it puts him furthest from Jon and his shirtsleeves. Oblivious to his emotional conflict, Sasha leans over to link her arm through his. 

“We got this one out of the office,” she gestures to Jon, “so that’s your cue that the party’s officially started.”

“I dragged him out,” Tim says proudly. He wraps an arm around Jon’s shoulders, and Jon’s expression freezes between alarm and resignation. 

Martin eyes Tim’s confident, bicep-laden arm. Tim could probably convince anyone to party. It’s his special talent. That, and bicep workouts. Martin’s not bitter, though. 

When Tim sees the way Jon's staring at him, he tilts his head back and laughs. “Jon, don’t look at me like that. It’s for your own good. When’s the last time you went anywhere?”

“Uhhh,” Jon mutters something under his breath that sounds like _probably last year_ and then clears his throat. “Thank you, Tim. It’s been…enlightening.”

“Sure thing, boss!” 

Tim claps him on the shoulder, then releases him. Looking relieved, Jon straightens his collar and waves the bartender over.

Martin can’t tell what drink he ordered, but when delivered, it looks like whiskey or rum. And Jon drinks it straight, tilting his head back to swallow in a sharp movement that warms Martin to his core. Martin gets trapped for a moment in the hollow of Jon’s throat as it contracts, in the motion of his long fingers as he sets the glass back down, empty. 

“Martin, buddy. Earth to Martin.” Tim’s reaching past Sasha to wave a hand in front of his face with glee. “She said what do you want to drink?”

The bartender is looking at him expectantly. Martin notices it’s the nice bartender tonight, the one who makes the drinks slower because she’s taking time to say hello to all her regulars. Once she and Martin had a conversation about their favorite kinds of dogs. 

“Oh, hi, Sarah. Uh, I’ll start out with a cider, please. Whatever you have available tonight.” 

She smiles at him, winks, and goes to get his drink. 

“Someone likes you,” Sasha whispers dramatically into his ear, and he immediately flushes. 

“What? Who’s that?” He can’t stop his eyes from darting to Jon again.

Sasha laughs at him. “The bartender, silly. Have you, you know, told her?”

“That I’m gay?”

It comes out louder than Martin would have preferred. Martin is out to the people at work, Sasha especially, but it’s not like he wants to advertise it to the room. He looks over to see if Jon’s noticed, but Jon is frowning down at his glass, tracing one finger over the rim. This process seems to take all of his focus.

“Yeah, I’m not sure she’s figured it out,” Sasha says. 

“She doesn’t—she’s just nice to everyone like that.”

“She wasn’t nice to me,” Jon offers blankly. His face doesn’t change expression, but his eyes dart to Martin and then back down to his glass. Martin flushes even deeper at the idea that Jon’s been actively listening to the conversation. 

“I wonder why,” says Tim. “You scowled at her the whole time you were ordering.”

“I wasn’t scowling! This is how I look, Tim.”

“Don’t we all know it. But, just a tip, not everyone is into the whole emo criminal mastermind thing. You may have to tone it down if you ever want to date anyone.”

“Some people could be into it,” are the words that spill from Martin’s completely sober brain into the actual world. Three heads swivel in his direction with three different expressions ranging from amusement to delight to confusion. Thankfully, at that moment Sarah reappears with his cider in a big mug. Martin thanks her, feeling more grateful than he can truly express. Then he buries his red face in the mug and chugs his cider so fast he has to stop and cough.

Sasha pats his shoulder in support, still laughing. “Like who? Elias?”

“Oh god.” Jon shudders. His face displays an abject horror that makes Martin laugh in spite of himself. He’s just about stopped coughing by the time he realizes that Sasha’s saved him from having to explain. That makes him feel a little warm inside. It’s silly, but Martin’s never had coworkers who actually care about him. He’d want to sink into the moment like a warm blanket, but the conversation continues, dragging him along with it.

“What’s the matter, Elias isn’t your type? Don’t like them corporate and creepy?” Tim asks.

“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. But no Tim, now that you mention it, I don’t like them corporate and creepy.”

“So what is your type?” Sasha asks innocently. Martin tries to subtly kick her in the shin, but she just stirs her drink and waits.

Jon does not respond for a long moment. He sits dangerously still, and when he finally does turn to squint at Sasha, Martin can see that he’s wishing he’d worn his glasses so he could peer over them. That would probably have been more intimidating. As it is, his level of scorn is slightly undermined by the flush starting to creep out of his collar, just underneath his ears. Martin wants to touch that spot to see if it's warm against his fingers. To see if the wisps of hair brushing against his neck are as soft as they look. God, he isn't even drunk yet.

“I don’t know,” Jon says finally. “I don’t have a type.”

Tim scoffs.

“Everyone has a type. Sasha’s is people who like to go kayaking in their parents’ boats every weekend.”

“Hey!” 

“Mine is smart people with a sense of humor. Martin’s is—” 

“Alright,” Jon cuts in. “My type is people who have a spine. It’s all too rare in our line of work.”

Martin’s stomach drops. He’s never had a spine. People have always told him that. Ever since he was on the playground, scared to let go of the monkey bars and fall those few feet to the ground. White-knuckled, holding on until his fingers gave out.

He’d already known he wasn’t Jon’s type, but hearing it spelled out hurts more than he expected it would.

“A spine? That’s it? So, like, normal people with normal bones?” Tim clearly thinks he’s hilarious. Martin just wishes this conversation would die already, like his hopes and dreams. 

“Well, you know.” Jon waves a hand through the air in frustration. The alcohol’s made his movements a little less sharp, more fluid. He always talks with his hands, but now he looks like he’s using them to summon support. His glance lands on Martin for a moment. “Normal good people who stand up for other people! I wasn’t aware it was a type.”

Martin finds himself nodding along. “I think everyone wants to fall for someone like that,” he says quietly.

“Exactly. Thank you, Martin.”

It isn’t the fact that Jon’s agreed with him for the first time. That’s not what Martin will later use to justify the next four years. 

What sets his blood ringing in his ears, shocks him with the knowledge that it’s already too late to turn back, is the look Jon gives him when he agrees. Electric dark eyes, and a wary curiosity that reminds Martin of every question he’s ever been too afraid to speak out loud. Jon could ask Martin anything, anything at all, and he’d answer, but Martin realizes with a sudden thrill that Jon doesn’t know _how_. He wants to know about Martin, but he doesn’t know how to ask. 

Martin was prepared for any number of forearm sightings, any number of waistcoats and perfectly enunciated commands, but he wasn’t prepared for this. The raw, awkward earnestness of Jon’s gaze. The way Jon immediately looks away when he notices Martin watching him back. 

Well. Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

“Right, so that was when you accused your coworkers of framing you for murder? That’s normal.”

Georgie sits cross-legged next to him on the couch—a beat-up leather monstrosity that may or may not have come from the theater department of their college.

The bottle of rum sits on the table between them, and there’s a glint lurking in Georgie’s eyes that Jon remembers all too well from all too many nights just like this one—she's about to mock him mercilessly.

“Well. Well, it wasn’t like that.”

She grins. “Poetry, Jon? You looked through his poetry?”

“By accident!” 

It seems very important that Georgie knows he only read poetry on accident. His Edgar Allen Poe days are long behind him. Quoth the raven, nevermore.

“Was he any good?”

John makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, then reaches for the bottle to pour himself a bit more. It’s quite a trick, but the liquid eventually sloshes into the glass without spilling. 

“He might have been trying to kill me, Georgie. I had more important things on my mind than rating his free verse on a ten-point scale.”

“Oh, you’re so pretentious.”

“Coming from the woman who spent half our time together telling me I wouldn’t ‘get’ her new favorite punk rock band.” 

“That is _not_ the point, Jonathan! Can we get back to the fact that you snooped on your coworker’s mysterious love poetry?”

“I didn’t say it was love poetry.” 

For some reason, the thought jolts him with the thrill of forbidden knowledge, quickly followed by a rush of embarrassment. He hadn't meant to pry into Martin’s love life. 

“You didn’t have to, Jon. I mean, what else is he going to hide away like that?”

“I mean—he's—there are any number of reasons for someone to be private about their writing.”

“Hmm.” Georgie doesn’t sound convinced.

Looking back, Jon doesn’t think any of the poetry was written about a particular person. In fact, most of it involved mundane things like the smell of old books. One poem did describe waiting inside a phone booth for someone to call him—maybe because the worms took his cell phone? 

The poem didn’t go into specifics about the person on the other end of the line, though. Just said something about longing and static. Still, it gave Jon a funny feeling to read it, like he’d looked away from Martin for a second and missed some vital clue, now lost to the passage of time. He’s never actually known the author of any of the poetry he’s read. Somehow, it makes the words seem more important, like they really mean something. 

Jon tries to tell this to Georgie, but what comes out is significantly less refined and logical than he’d hoped.

“He wrote one about those booths, the ones on Doctor Who.”

“What?”

Jon grunts and slides further down the couch.

“Phone booths. Martin’s really into those. And the rain. Why does he like the rain so much? Do you know I once sent him to investigate a statement and he came back drenched because he just stood out there for no reason? Wanted to ‘take it all in’ or something.”

At the time, it seemed ridiculous. Looking back on it now, he just remembers Martin’s face flushed with happiness, and then the way half of it melted off when Jon told him to stop dripping all over the office. Why did Jon care about the dripping so much? He can't quite remember at this stage of inebriation. 

Georgie’s feet have migrated onto their old spot—his knees. Sighing, she throws her head back against the cushion on her end.

“Yeah, that’s really dramatic. Kind of like when we went on the Ferris wheel on our fourth date, and when you saw all the lights from above, you literally cried.”

“I did not!”

“What, did you think I wouldn’t see that?”

Jon groans and sticks his face in the disgusting dark space between two of the cushions. 

“I really hoped so.”

“Tough luck. I always knew you were soft.” One of Georgie’s toes pokes him in the kneecap for emphasis. “But don’t worry, that’s not why we broke up.”

Jon pointedly does not remove his face from the cushion. It smells like sweat—his sweat, probably. He’s losing all sense of time here. And he’s weirdly hungry, but not for any food he’s ever eaten. He wants a snack, yes, just not any of the ones in this flat.

“Why did we break up?” he asks. It’s the only thing he can think to say in the moment. 

He knows why already, though. People change, drift apart, find out they weren’t as compatible as they originally thought. It happens. He’s never had to ask, and really, he’s never been that bothered by it. Maybe for a few weeks after uni it stung a little bit. These days, he's not regretful that the relationship ended. 

Georgie hasn’t responded, so he lifts his head to see her studying him in curiosity, pursing her lips. It suddenly occurs to him that she might think—

“I—wait, I didn’t mean I wanted—not like that, I’m not—”

Her face softens with relief. 

“Yeah, no, me neither.” She pauses, seeming to collect her thoughts. “You tend to throw yourself into things without thinking, and I guess maybe I used to do that too, but since university, that’s just not me anymore. I have a good life, really. A balance. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

“I understand,” Jon says automatically.

“Do you?”

She peers at him over her glass. She doesn’t look frustrated or nervous—she’s never looked nervous, now that he thinks about it. Not at their first meeting at a concert, not at any point during their friendship, not when she cut to the chase and asked him if he was trying to go out with her. He’d been working up the courage to ask for weeks. 

There had been other questions over the years ( _what do you think about this dress, do you love me, should we live together, do you want to get a cat?_ ). In none of her questions had there ever been any hesitation. Not back then. Maybe it’s something you learn, hesitation. If so, Jon doesn’t think it’s an easy lesson. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I mean, I understand why long term we weren’t—well, why we’re not—you know. You don’t ever have to apologize for that.”

“Well I know that. I wasn’t going to.”

“Oh, good. Because it’s not necessary.”

“Obviously.”

They settle back against their respective ends of the couch. Jon thinks he might just stay here for the rest of the week. It’s not too bad, when you get used to it. Above him, the ceiling fan spins in a sloppy unbalanced rhythm that makes him a little dizzy. Or maybe he was already dizzy. His thoughts seem to spin around and around too, always returning to the same unsolved questions.

“Do you think it really was love poetry?” he asks. “Martin’s, I mean. Because if he’s dating someone, I’d probably better check them for worms or spiders. He’d wander right into something like—”

“God, Jon.” Georgie gets up unsteadily and tosses a pillow at him. It lands on his chest, and he makes no move to dislodge it. “I’m going to bed.”

“What does that mean? It was just a question.”

“Yeah, and you ask too many of them. Why don’t you just ask Martin for once? I’m too tired.”

“What, call him? He’s not going to be awake at this hour, he—”

“Goodnight, Jon.” 

Jon sighs and wriggles himself closer to the middle of the couch. He hears Georgie in the kitchen setting out water for the Admiral and pouring some for herself. An unspecified amount of time later, he feels the solid thump of a cat settling in to nap on his feet. 

Staring up at the ceiling, he wonders if he _should_ call Martin. Not to ask him about the poetry, obviously. Just to check in. Maybe he can subtly examine Martin’s personal life for anything out of the ordinary. He should probably wait until morning, though.

Suddenly, he gets a vision of Martin coming home from a date. Some wide, muscular rugby player escorts him home, arm around his shoulders—only to vanish in a cascade of worms. Helpless, Martin tries to run, but he isn’t fast enough, and the worms are too close. They hurl themselves full force at him, clinging to his skin, burrowing deep in a matter of seconds.

Jon has his phone out with his thumb navigating to his favorites screen before he realizes that he’s being paranoid again. And creepy. Paranoid, creepy, and drunk. What a winning combination.

Martin’s not that stupid. The call can wait. 

Jon takes a moment to breathe deeply and relax his entire body. Against his calf, the Admiral curls up into a tighter ball and begins to purr. This whole line of thought is ridiculous. Martin wouldn’t go out with a rugby player, anyway. 

Maybe a businessman? Someone with a strong jaw and a bright future. No, that doesn’t seem right. He can’t imagine even Martin pretending to be fascinated by corporate synergy and deliverables. Martin is warm, genuine, kind, so he needs someone with those same qualities. A humanitarian, perhaps, someone on a mission to save planet Earth. Someone who runs a dog shelter. Someone who has something to offer. 

Jon tries to decide how he’ll bring this up in the morning. He starts the conversation in his head: _Oh hello, Martin. How’s life? Yes, things are going very well here. Being wanted for murder is—_

No. Start again.

_Hello, Martin, sorry for calling so early. Just wondering, out of curiosity, are you seeing anyone lately?_

God, no. 

_Martin, I read your poetry by accident and now I’m spiraling into panic at the thought that you’re dating someone I don’t know about. Sorry to bother you like this, but I cannot sleep because I’m worried you’ll die at the hands of a fake rugby player._

Jesus Christ. Jon cannot say that on the phone. Probably better not to call at all. 

“What do you think, Admiral? Should I call him tomorrow?”

The admiral makes no response, just continues to sink her claws into his sweatpants and purr like a kettle heating up. 

“Thanks. You’re a huge help.”

Jon decides he’ll sleep on it. Not much else he can do at three in the morning. The alcohol is starting to wear off, and exhaustion is beginning to set in. Yet despite the whole-body ache of being conscious, it is a long, long while before Jon finally manages to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who mentioned hot Jon rights in the last chapter, I love and appreciate you, but this man is also a mess. Next chapter should be up within a day or two. Thanks for reading! <33


	3. Chapter 3

So it’s not the original crew. Although really, at 4:45 PM on a Wednesday, Martin’s not surprised no one else wanted to come. 

Melanie, Basira, and Daisy sit with him in the darkest booth of a pub that feels a little seedy, even this early. The plastic surface of their table is grimy in a way that looks uncleanable, and the light fixtures barely dispel the darkness in the corners of their booth. 

“I tried to invite Tim,” Martin says, as a way of making conversation. 

Just because he doesn’t trust his new coworkers doesn’t mean he won’t put in the effort. His voice barely reaches across the table, though. These days, it feels like he’s floating in the middle of a lake, and everyone else is on shore. 

Across the table, he can see the shadows in Daisy’s cheekbones, something a little too hungry hiding behind the angles of her face. Why is she here, again? 

Melanie nurses a huge beer next to him.

“Yeah, Tim’s not much for socializing these days.”

The others make various sounds of agreement, and then the conversation threatens to die again. Martin hates being the only one to try and keep it alive. 

Normally, with Tim and Sash—well, with the others, it was different. With Jon. Not that Jon’s ever been a good conversationalist, but his presence always felt warm, like a sunburn that you remember every time you move. Or like some vital, fluttering thing in the back of Martin’s skull. It made Martin feel like it was worth it to stay in the moment, anyway. He frowns down at his cider. 

The last time he’d seen Jon, he’d been too skinny, wearing a t-shirt that fit him wrong, but underneath it all, he’d been the same person. Same sharp angles, same softness about the eyes. Same awkward smile when he saw Martin. Same rush to get away. 

If Jon would just tell him what’s going on, then Martin would be able to stop replaying these moments over and over in his head. Or he’d be able to stop worrying, at least.

As if reading his thoughts, Daisy slouches further across the table towards him and squints at his drink. She looks like she’s judging him a little. 

“Oh, stop your moping. We’re here to get drunk.”

“You haven’t been drunk in years, Daisy,” Basira remarks lightly.

“Not for lack of trying. _You_ get drunk though.”

Basira raises one elegant eyebrow and stirs her vodka tonic. 

“Someone’s got to keep up with you.”

“You know if the chips here are any good?” Melanie cuts in, too brightly to sound genuine. 

Martin hasn’t quite gotten a read on Melanie yet. She seems pleasant enough, and far more straightforward than Basira, but she signed on to work at the Magnus Institute. There must be _something_ fishy about her. The Archives doesn’t hire anyone with a normal life, with friends and options.

Martin likes her, but he’s not sure that’s a ringing endorsement. 

“The chips? They’re awful,” Basira replies. “Too much salt.”

“Perfect, I’m going to get some. You guys want anything?”

There’s a chorus of grunts that mean no, and then Melanie’s striding off towards the bar on her mission. 

Martin hasn’t been paying much attention to this exchange. He’s chosen to focus on the ring of damp grime left by his cider glass instead, wondering if it’s a portent of stomach pain to come. Cleanliness doesn’t seem to be high on this place’s list of priorities.

“You all right, mate?” Basira asks. 

Martin must really look like a wreck. He tries to pull himself together, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. He gives his best self-deprecating smile. “Just a lot of change recently. Job’s been a bit stressful what with—well, what with so many people out.”

Daisy nods. “By so many people, you mean that damn archivist. If I ever catch Sims, I’ll—”

“Daisy,” Basira says. It’s a full sentence. 

“What? He’s made life harder for the rest of us.” Daisy takes a sip of her drink, unconcerned.

Basira frowns at her.

“They were friends,” she says, gesturing to Martin. 

At this point, Martin decides that if his disgusting pining is so evident his new coworker picked up on it immediately, he needs to either bury himself under a mountain of chips or set the record straight. 

“No, no, it’s fine. I wouldn’t say we were exactly…friends? Not really. I just don’t think he did it. Committed that murder.”

Daisy points at him emphatically. “You say you weren’t friends. So how would you know? He could be murdering other people right now.”

The rush of anger in Martin’s chest surprises him. All anyone has to do is mention Jon, and he’s immediately defensive. Martin knows how this looks, but he can’t stop himself. It’s like there’s an empty cavern in the middle of him, and it can fill with ice or fire at a moment’s notice. Now it’s all fire.

“Well he’s _not_. And it’s not like we weren’t friends. It’s just…I don’t know. It was complicated.”

“Complicated, was it?” Basira’s tone is neutral, but curiosity practically flows from her body as she leans closer.

Martin sighs. 

“Not like that.” At least, not on Jon’s end. On Martin’s, it’s just a string of complications, all tangled up together, worry and longing intertwined. But that’s not relevant. “I just meant, he’s not the easiest person to be friends with. But he didn’t murder anyone. I know him well enough to be able to say that.”

“Okay,” Basira says. She leans back again. “For the record, I believe you.”

“Okay. Good.”

Melanie appears at his left, plopping back down again with what looks like an entire bucket of chips. Perfect, Martin can bury himself alive in those.

“Hey guys,” she says cheerfully. She’s already stuffing her mouth. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” Basira says. “Really, truly nothing.”

Nothing, Martin thinks. There’s nothing to miss. 

On the way back to his apartment, sitting in the tube under the too-bright artificial lights, he gets out his phone. He checks his texts, hoping he’s missed a notification. The phone’s just a cheap one from his local supermarket, so it sometimes drops calls and fails to notify him when someone’s texted him. 

He only has a few numbers saved in it so far—his mother’s, his mother’s doctors, Tim’s, Sasha’s (he still can’t bring himself to delete it), his favorite Indian takeout place. Jon’s. He’s memorized Jon’s number, from the amount of times he’s stared at the screen deciding whether or not he should press dial. 

No missed texts. No missed calls. 

Martin sighs. What would he even say if Jon did call, or if he called Jon? _I miss you?_ That’s obvious. _I think our boss is planning something really evil?_ Also obvious. _I hate being here on my own?_ Martin’s always hated being on his own, but that’s never made a difference. 

_I love you?_

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. Realizes he means it. In his head, there’s a universe in which he calls Jon and tells him that he loves him. In this universe, he’s braver than he’s ever been before. His voice doesn’t shake, and his knees don’t go weak, and he tells Jon to come back right now, because he loves him and whatever they have to do to get free of the Archives, they can do it together. 

And in that universe, Jon says yes. Comes back to him safe. Keeps coming back to him, every day. Martin lets it all play out in high definition detail—lunches in the park, Jon’s hand in his, Jon’s sleepy eyes squinting open in the morning sunlight, their legs tangled up together while they sleep, the little apartment with a balcony for the plants, Jon’s heartbeat, calm and steady for the first time underneath Martin’s palm. 

He imagines it all. And then he opens his eyes again. 

Cold metal underneath him. Florescent lights. Empty ribcage as he’s propelled, one mile at a time, to an emptier home. 

He doesn’t call. And he almost convinces himself he’s not waiting for Jon to call, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about the pining! Thank you guys so much for your kind comments & kudoses!! Next chapter should be up soon, and as always thanks for reading <3


	4. Chapter 4

Jon’s a couple of drinks in before he looks at Daisy where she’s planted herself on his desk, and sighs deeply.

“This is not ideal,” he admits.

“No shit. Which part?”

Her disgusting feet are in his nice office chair with the ergonomically correct level of cushioning. He finds he doesn’t have the energy to care.

“ _All_ of it.”

“Yeah, but which part? I was thinking of not being able to go to bars because if someone pisses me off, I might go full wolf on them. Your pro-con list could be different.”

“It’s all cons, Daisy. It’s all cons, is my problem.” 

All of it is one big con, he thinks, but particularly the part where his old coworkers will hardly speak to him. He can’t stop thinking about the way Martin’s face had looked when he’d run into him in the hall. The fear written there, the sheer amount of distance Martin had immediately put between them. It feels like dying all over again—becoming unrecognizable, even to people he—well, people he used to know. 

He slouches further against the wall which has become his home for the night. Liquid sloshes inside the mug he’s pulled out from the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. _World’s Best Boss_ , it reads, although _Best_ has been crossed out and _scariest_ has been written in its place in sharpie, all caps. He doesn’t remember being given this; it must have been Gertrude’s. 

Daisy shrugs, plops off the desk, and comes to sit down next to him with her own mug.

“It’s not all cons. We could still be underground.”

“Right, the classic ‘don’t say it’s all cons or it really will be.’ Payback. Got it.”

If anything is payback, it’s the way anxiety feels like it will boil up out of him any time he even thinks about the others. About Martin and his mysterious plans and the way his absence feels like a fresh, unexpected wound. He’d thought the gin would help a little more.

Daisy settles her shoulder against his shoulder. 

“For me, it’s payback. For you, it’s probably more like shit luck.”

“Well.” Jon raises his mug to hers sloppily. He doesn’t know what to say to that. “Here’s to shit luck.”

“Cheers.” 

She lifts her mug and takes a long swig, looking so tired by the time she’s set it back down in her lap that Jon feels a pang of sympathy.

“You eaten lately?” he asks. “A sandwich or something?”

She glares at him. 

“No, I forgot,” she says, as though he’s told her to go jump off a cliff.

“Well, you should. Eat, I mean. Basira will tell you off when she gets back.”

Daisy looks down at her hands, twisting them into different shapes. Each shape looks a little grotesque. A little unnatural, like it hurts her to make them. Jon wonders if any of his movements ever look like that. If that filing clerk yesterday had walked away so quickly because he could tell, somehow, that Jon’s not human anymore. If people are all avoiding him because he’s creepy. Does Martin think he’s creepy, is that why—

“She doesn’t.” Daisy’s carefully steady voice interrupts his train of thought. “She doesn’t tell me off anymore.”

Jon’s not sure what he’s supposed to make of that, but Daisy looks sad about it. 

“I’m…sorry?” he offers. 

“It’s just she used to. All the time. Always getting on my case. She doesn’t—well, she didn’t argue, exactly. She just told me when she thought I was being stupid. And now she doesn’t. It’s just weird, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know the feeling.”

She squints at him for a moment and then nods slowly. 

“Your guy still ignoring you, then?”

“What? I don’t—I’m not sure what you—he’s not my guy!” 

“Right.” Daisy rolls her eyes. “So you spend every other second talking about him, and you don’t know what I mean.”

“I don’t spend every other—listen, it’s just weird that he won’t talk to me. We were _friends_. We had _conversations_. He brought me _tea_. And now, what, I’m a stranger to him? I mean, I passed him in the hallway the other day and he practically ran away from me! That’s weird! It’s not normal.”

Daisy has the gall to laugh at him. 

“Yeah, well, nothing’s normal anymore. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, but he was the one person who was never bothered by it! By me. Sure, situations would freak him out but he always…he was always kind. He stood up for me. He didn’t have to, but he did.”

He gets another unexpected pang of loss remembering the tapes from just before the Unknowing. Six months ago, Martin’s voice had sounded desperate on the recording. He’d sounded like he might die if Jon didn’t come back to him. Now, the irony strikes Jon as he experiences what must be the same feeling. If he’d known it felt like _this_ —well, for one thing, he’d never have called Martin useless. The fact that he’d managed to do anything under the weight of this crushing panicked longing is a small miracle. 

And to think that Martin’s survived the past three years without crumbling, without backing down, without even having the right degree for the field in which they’re both supposed to be working…Martin’s never been useless. He’s been kind, argumentative, irritatingly determined underneath his soft eyes and soft cardigans, but never useless. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, okay. You just wish he would call you back. Explain why he ended things.” Daisy lets out a weary sigh. “It’s always the same,” she mutters.

“Whatever you’re thinking of, I can promise you it’s _not_ the same.”

“Because you’re better for him than Lukas, right?”

Jon sinks against the wall, burying his face in his elbow. “Well, I _am_ ,” he insists weakly. He can feel Daisy’s shoulders shaking next to him. He should have just left her in the damn coffin. 

“Right. Eye versus Lonely showdown, then. Prove which one of you is more of a man?”

“Hey! That’s not—I don’t give you shit about Basira, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy admits. “Here.”

She reaches over to tap his arm until he unwinds himself from it. Then she grabs the bottle of gin to top off his mug. 

“Sorry about your boy problems,” she says gruffly. 

He sighs in acknowledgement, taking another sip. It’s wearing off a bit. Jon doesn’t know if he likes being drunk or not. It used to be different, back before he could See so many things, but now it feels like being on the inside of a fishbowl trying not to look at the outside. It’s very sloshy, and he has less control over the fuzzy Knowing that scratches against the corners of his mind. 

“I’m sorry too,” he says. It’s reflex. He’s made a lot of apologies lately, all of them utterly inadequate to repair the friendships he once almost had. 

“For what?”

He thinks she’s making fun of him again, but when he looks over at her, past the blurry haze of alcohol, her face looks sincere. Tired, but sincere. 

“I don’t know. Everything?”

“Are you in charge of the whole world, then?”

It seems to be a serious question, one for which she expects some response.

“No?” Jon guesses. “But it doesn’t mean I’m not…responsible.”

Daisy tilts her head back against the wall, lets out a long breath. “Yeah,” she says, “but not for this. Not for me.”

They stay quiet for a moment. The only sound is the dripping of the water cooler in the corner of the room. 

“Anyway,” Daisy continues, “Martin will come around. Used to go on about you all the time, god knows why. If you’d just told him you had feelings for him a year ago—”

“I didn’t know.” 

“Seriously?”

Jon just looks at her. Well, can he help it if he had a few things on his mind besides office romance? People were actively trying to kill him. 

“You know now though, right? You know that’s what’s happening?”

Jon lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Yes, I _know_. You don’t have to rub it in.”

Jon knows he has feelings. There are a lot of them, and they’re very loud. He can’t really distinguish one from another. All he knows is that every single one of them is telling him to go find Martin and make him explain. Beg him to come back.

He feels like a shark circling blood. He has to keep reminding himself, past the raw terrible wanting, that he can swim in a different direction. He’s been specifically told to swim in a different direction. It’s just, the ache in his heart drives him forward, compels him in a way that sometimes feels just as strong as the Eye. And just as impossible to ignore.

He realizes Daisy’s looking at him more keenly than she had been a moment ago. 

“Are _you_ hungry, Sims?”

“Yes,” Jon admits. “Starving.”

There’s a knock on the door, brisk, businesslike. It opens almost immediately, revealing Basira. 

“Oh, that’s where you guys are. I’ve been looking all over for—really Daisy? You know I bought that to take home.”

Daisy grins and raises the bottle towards Basira. She purposefully takes a swig from it instead of her mug. 

“Well, scoot over then.” Basira nudges Daisy’s leg with her sneaker, and then Daisy and Jon scoot down until there’s room for her against the wall. When Basira sits, she looks tired but relieved. She’s probably glad to find them both in one piece instead of raising havoc somewhere in central London. Raising havoc or having it raised on them. Two options, these days. 

Well, Jon thinks, there’s a third option, but it involves a lot of sitting and waiting, and Jon’s terrible, _terrible_ at that. Just the thought makes him restless. He doesn’t know how much longer he can wait for things to happen. He needs to take action. He needs—

“I have to—” he starts. He gets up unsteadily, balancing himself with a hand on the wall.

“Where are you going?” Basira sounds suspicious.

“Don’t worry, it’s not anything like that. It’s just—there’s a—I have to make a phone call. Be right back.”

Jon stumbles towards the door and pushes it open with only one thought on his mind. He just needs to call once, and then he’ll leave Martin alone. He will. He’ll respect boundaries and he’ll be more lovely. He makes his way down the hall until he’s sure Daisy and Basira can’t overhear. 

When he dials Martin’s number, he hopes against hope that Martin will pick up on the other end. That he’s cozy on his couch watching TV and eating takeout. That he’s not shut away in his new office with Lukas, learning how to vanish himself.

Martin doesn’t pick up. The dial tone keeps ringing and ringing, and Jon keeps hoping right up until the last moment.

There’s a beep, and then there’s Martin’s voice, cheerier than it’s been in ages. Bright and alive. It sends another pang of loss through Jon’s chest. “Hello! This is Martin. Sorry I couldn’t make it to the phone, but uh, leave your number and I’ll get back to you! Okay, bye.”

Jon takes a breath. Another beep, and he tries to think where to even start.

“Hello, Martin. This is, well you can probably tell that this is Jon again. Listen, I know you said you needed space—shit. I mean, that’s not what I—that’s not important. No, I mean it _is_ , what you want is important to me, it’s just. I’ve been thinking, and phone calls don’t really violate the rules, do they? I mean, you’re still alone. Technically. We could talk, this way. I just don’t think you know what you’re getting into, and even if you do, it’s not worth it, just…call me back, all right?”

Jon can feel himself devolving into even more of a mess than he had been at the start of this evening, which is saying a lot. At this point, he’s just a stammer in an old band t-shirt and a jacket that must have belonged to Georgie at one point.

He realizes he’s still on the line, panics.

“I miss you,” he blurts out. “More than I can say. I’m hanging up now.”

He presses the button to end the call and then stands there with his ears ringing and his pulse pounding so hard he can feel it in his wrists. Maybe it’s time to call it a night. Or at least get some water. 

He knows deep down, though, that sleep won’t help. Water won’t help. He’s still going to be in love in the morning. And it’s still going to be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took a few days longer than anticipated for the update! Life has been insane. Anyway, enjoy some more pining for now, and next up, we have some Scottish Safehouse Times. As always, thank you for reading, and I wish you an excellent day! <33


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've looked at this too long and now I don't know if it's coherent. Jonmartin can have a little kissing, as a treat

Jon wasn’t the one captured by the Lonely, but he swears he can feel its tendrils all the way from here. He’s mindlessly scrubbing a counter of the kitchen in Daisy’s remote Scottish hideaway—not the prime spot for a vacation, but infinitely preferable to the place he’s just left. 

Infinitely preferable, except for the fact that Martin isn’t within his line of sight. Martin’s gone to the market in town, said he wanted to go alone, said he needed some time to think, whatever that means. What does that _mean_? 

Looking back on it, Jon feels stupid for letting him leave like that, but what was he supposed to say? Jon doesn’t know the rules of this game. Can he tell Martin he wants him around, not just for the moment, but for every moment, always? Is that too much? Now that they have actually run away together, is it odd to draw attention to the fact that they’ve run away together?

The screen door flaps open, and Jon feels an immediate, overwhelming relief. He knows it’s Martin by the buzz of nervous happiness in his chest. He’s not sure if it belongs to him or Martin, but regardless, it’s about as far removed from that numbing grey fog as a person can get. It makes Jon feel alive all the way down to his nerve endings.

“Got us some tea. They only had peppermint,” Martin’s saying, and before he’s even all the way through the door, Jon comes up to take the bags out of his hands. He resists the urge to pull Martin into his arms and cling to him, but his breath still catches at the way Martin smiles at him shyly, the way Martin’s knuckles brush his by accident.

Jon goes to put the bags in the cupboard for something to do. Since he apparently can’t even look at Martin without having a crisis. His hands stop on a particularly long package which is wrapped in a paper sack.

“Martin? Did you buy us wine?”

“Uhm.” Martin has trailed behind him into the kitchen. He stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, then the back pockets. “Yeah,” he says in a voice no one would mistake for casual even if they didn’t have supernatural powers of knowledge. “It was on discount. Thought we deserved it, after this week.”

“God. You’re right. It’s been a hell of a week.”

Jon reaches for the wine to put it in the fridge. Martin also reaches for the wine, so for a moment, their fingers brush over each other on the bottle. Martin draws back, like he’s been burned, which isn’t exactly the reaction Jon would have hoped for. The kitchen feels too small. Abruptly, Jon remembers one relevant fact about Martin. 

“You don’t like wine.”

“Well. I just thought—I mean, you like it.” 

Now that Jon’s put the wine in the fridge, he’s got this itch in his palms. There aren’t enough places in the entire world for Jon to put his hands, if he’s not allowed to put them in the space between Martin’s neck and his shoulders. It’s an inviting space, all softness and warmth, Jon can tell. 

The longing to touch him hasn’t gone away at all. If anything, it’s grown in intensity until one accidental collision of fingertips threatens to undo Jon. In the Lonely, he brushed the stubble on Martin’s jaw with his thumbs, tipped Martin’s face down to look at him. And far from drawing back, Martin leaned into Jon, even as he said he wanted to be alone. So what’s changed?

Jon tries to figure out what Martin needs him to say. The way Martin is looking at him, full of wary hope, suggests there’s some right answer, and in the forty-eight hours since they left the Lonely, Jon hasn’t hit on it yet. 

“I—I do like it,” Jon says. “But you don’t have to do things just because I want them. I mean, you can buy us whatever you want.”

“I _know_ that,” Martin says. And then he starts to pick at the hem of his sweater—that green one that makes his eyes look like the brightest things in the universe. Jon feels unmoored. 

“I want you to have what you want, Martin,” he tries. 

“I know you do, but it’s not—I mean, you don’t have to feel responsible for me anymore. You don’t have to just give me things because you feel bad for me.”

Martin won’t look him in the eyes when he says it. He’s smiling, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s the smile he uses when he’s about to tell Jon things are completely fine, and then go do something like sacrifice himself to a fear god. 

“What?”

“I said, you can stop feeling like you owe me something. If anything, I owe you.”

Jon’s becoming more confused by the second. He can feel his brow wrinkling.

“Martin, you don’t owe me anything. I came to find you because I didn’t want to do this—” he gestures to the air, meaning _everything_ , meaning _my life_ “without you. I couldn’t. So I had to get you out of there.”

When Martin finally does look up, his expression reminds Jon of the one he’d worn in the Lonely. Shadowed, guarded. But behind the barrier of his crossed arms, he looks like he’s trying to protect some small, living thing that keeps flickering onto his face. 

“Jon, I just meant that the way I feel—you might not—look, if you don’t want the same thing that I want out of this, then you should just tell me now. It’s easier. Whatever you said in the Lonely, I’m not going to hold you to it. You were trying to get me out. I understand."

“What are you talking about? Look, I _do_ want the same thing. I want—” Jon struggles with the phrasing. He’s never been good at this bit. How to describe the gaping cavern of wanting that he holds in his chest for Martin? “I want you. Us, I mean. Together.”

Martin’s eyes widen, but he still looks uncertain. 

“You…you can’t just say that to make me feel better.”

Jon groans in frustration. “I’m not just saying it! Christ, it’s like you’ve forgotten that I drunk called you begging you to come back.”

For a moment, Martin’s entire face goes still. Then he blinks once, twice.

“You did what?”

The flush that immediately floods Jon’s face feels overkill, even for him. He’s come to terms with the fact that he left three tipsy messages on Martin’s phone—not even on the same day—sounding varying degrees of desperate. He’s boxed it away; it’s in his extremely embarrassing past along with the time he got into a stranger’s car instead of his cab. He hadn’t meant to draw attention to it ever, ever again. 

“Did you…did you not get my calls?”

Martin’s face remains impassively, brutally blank. 

“A few months ago, did you not—oh god.”

Jon wants to hide inside the kitchen drain. But at the same moment, he realizes that _Martin didn’t get his calls_. Which means that for months, they hadn’t spoken, and then Jon rushed in practically proposing marriage out of the blue. And for those months, Martin had thought Jon was capable of ignoring him. Jon is torn between deep mortification and deep horror that Martin might not realize what he is to Jon—not a spur-of-the-moment crush, not someone to pass the time with or bicker with until anyone else arrives, but a part of Jon that feels more unchanging, more solid than his bones. Bones can be removed, after all, but Jon’s sure that when everything else of his humanity is taken from him, what will remain in his core is the tidal wave of love for Martin that washes over him every day.

“I’m sorry, you got drunk and called me to do what?” Martin sounds incredulous, but the chill has left his voice. His face slowly sheds its blank confusion and inches towards humor. 

“It was—you were gone and I—” Jon takes a breath. Tries to calm his racing pulse, wills the redness in his cheeks to subside. “Never mind about that. Listen, you…you said you owe me now, right?”

“Jon, I—”

“So if I say that I want something, you won’t laugh at me?”

Now the smile really breaks loose. The punch-to-the-gut life in that smile, after all the months of grey worry, makes Jon want to cry in relief. 

“I can’t make any promises,” Martin says. “Sorry, I’m still stuck on the drunk phone call.”

“Calls, plural.” 

Jon steps up to Martin. He thinks Martin still wants this. Jon may die if he's wrong, but he doesn't think he is. He thinks the wide-eyed expression on Martin's face is hope. “Martin, can I _please_ —”

“Yes. God, anything. You can have—”

Jon can’t take the waiting for a second longer. He reaches for Martin, pulls him flush against his own chest, and kisses him. His hands find the spot underneath Martin’s jaw where his pulse spikes, and he’s warmer than Jon thought was even possible. After a moment of shock, Martin melts into the kiss. He makes a _fascinating_ sound in the back of his throat when he does, all desperation and relief. Jon wants to crawl inside his head and live there, forget himself entirely in the exploration of what Martin is. He settles for clenching his fingers in Martin’s jumper and dragging him as close as physically possible. 

Martin has the softest mouth Jon’s ever felt underneath his own. When Martin’s hands slide down Jon’s back, Jon’s stomach swoops and his knees actually go weak. Previously to this moment, Jon assumed that when people talked about feeling weak at the knees, they were exaggerating. Now, all those romantic clichés seem like an understatement compared to the shaky, whole-hearted longing unfurling itself inside his body. Jon didn’t know that it would feel like longing—that he’d be surrounded by Martin and still want him to reach into the space between his lungs and take hold of his heart. In Martin's palm, the beating, aching thing would finally find its home.

When Martin breaks away, he doesn’t go far. He leans his forehead against Jon’s, breathless.

“Okay. Wow, okay. That answers _that_ question.”

“Does it?” Jon feels his brain trying to reboot, one cell at a time.

“Yeah.”

“Which—” Distracted, Jon leans up to press his mouth against the corner of Martin’s again. “Sorry, which question was that?”

Martin laughs softly. It sets something free in Jon’s chest, just underneath the ribs he’s missing. 

“Oh, you know. Does he _like me_ like me?”

“I do like you. I would hope that’s fairly obvious.”

Martin rolls his eyes with a fondness that makes Jon's breath catch.

“In a romantic way.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Martin, you didn’t know? Not at any point? Not even a little?” 

“How would I? You never told me!”

“I asked you to run away with me!”

At the time, Jon thought that the message was pretty clear. He assumed his lovesick distraction was visible from space. His _boss_ noticed. People that hated him noticed. Daisy took to giving him pitying looks when she passed him wandering the corridors while pretending he wasn't looking for Martin. It wasn’t exactly a secret.

“And gouge our eyes out! You weren’t exactly thinking clearly.”

 _That's_ the detail Martin's stuck on? Not the bit where they would have eloped? 

Jon’s not sure he’s thinking clearly now. He feels too light, like he’s swallowed all the air in the sky and now he’s rising, up and up. He traces the corner just underneath Martin’s left eye. The eyelashes brush against the tips of his fingers as Martin blinks. They're even softer than Jon imagined they would be. 

“You’re right. I like your eyes.”

The color rises to Martin’s cheeks; Jon wants to file this expression away in a corner of his mind where he can take it out and look at it any time he wants. 

“Me _too_ ,” Martin says. “You’re ridiculous.”

But he presses Jon up to the kitchen counter, wraps his arms around Jon’s waist, and holds him there while he kisses him so slowly and deliberately it makes Jon's bones ache. Jon tries to lean up into him, kiss him harder, but Martin's arms tighten to keep him in place until he gives up and relaxes again. He feels completely boxed in, but completely safe. When’s the last time Jon’s felt safe? He can’t remember a time. Now though, now. All the ways he’s been branded by pain seem to melt away, leaving only this: Martin’s soft mouth, and the way he touches Jon like a treasured thing. 

It’s almost too much for one human to bear. Jon can feel himself folding under the weight of this love. He hears the embarrassing, half-anguished sound he makes and has to stop before he melts out of the soles of his feet.

Breaking away to bury his face in Martin’s neck, he thinks he’d better make absolutely certain he’s been understood.

“I have feelings for you,” he admits into Martin’s skin. “Romantic ones.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss just underneath Martin’s jaw and feels the quick little intake of breath.

He feels the laugh too, before it even comes out. It’s a happy, bubbling thing, caught in Martin’s throat.

“Okay.”

“I have for a year at least. Wait, coma. Two years? For a while. Maybe...maybe always.”

“Okay, Jon.” 

He can feel Martin's pulse beating quickly against his lips. It's a steady rhythm though, staccato drumbeats from an expert band. All of Martin is steady, underneath the parts of him that look like they’re not. He sounds like he's about to laugh again, damn him. 

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything about it?” 

This is what Jon gets for baring his entire soul within the span of five minutes. He’d be a little put out if he wasn’t too busy feeling like radio static and melted honey at the same time. 

He trails his fingers, slowly, deliberately, all the way up Martin's spine—one form of revenge. It works. Martin shudders with his whole body, much to Jon's triumph. Then his fingers tighten in Jon’s shirt, and he presses a kiss to the space just between Jon's eyebrows, where the furrow usually rests. 

“Everything’s already been said. I came back from the Lonely for you,” Martin points out. He sounds very reasonable for someone whose hands are shaking.

Jon takes another moment to breathe him in. He feels real and solid, smells like cheap deodorant and summer grass. 

“You’re right,” he says. The reality of it hits him all over again. The reality of Martin's place in the exact center of Jon's world. “You came back.”

Martin's answering smile, pressed up against Jon’s mouth, illuminates every dark corner of the universe.

Martin’s not sure how they ended up here. He’s in the kitchen of Daisy’s cottage, and Jon’s arms have been wound around his neck for the better part of an hour. Martin realized some time into this evening that when Jon is in love, he _clings_. He becomes a human octopus. It's almost too much for Martin’s brain to process. Martin hasn’t been touched by anyone in what feels like months, maybe years, and to suddenly have the warm body of the person he’s wanted for an eternity pressed up again him makes him feel nearly dizzy, drunk on that alone. 

At this point in the evening, both Jon and Martin are tipsy, Jon more so because he’s smaller and he lives off the fear of being watched rather than any kind of real food. Meals made of fear apparently aren’t enough to keep him from swaying slightly against Martin. 

“Jon?”

Jon looks up from Martin’s shoulder to watch him with one curious eye open. He makes a grumpy, sleepy noise that fills Martin with the sort of nostalgia usually only evoked by sepia photographs and tape-player buzz. Martin has heard that particular grunt for years, but he's never felt the breath hiss out softly against his neck in time with it. 

“Are you all right?” Martin asks. 

“I’m _dancing_ ,” Jon says, indignant enough that Martin knows he's also deeply, deeply embarrassed. “You put on music, so I’m dancing. You were the one who wanted to.”

Martin laughs. He did put on the music—his favorite of the playlists on his phone—which now plays tinnily from the bad phone speaker. He hasn’t told Jon, but this is Jon’s playlist. Every song is about him. Martin hasn’t titled it for him or anything, but years ago, every time he heard a song on the radio that reminded him of Jon, he added it to the playlist, pretending, the whole time, that it wasn’t a big deal. That he wouldn’t put it on later while thinking of Jon’s dark eyes and his elegant hands. The amount of pining a guy can do to Adele covers is really incredible. 

Martin remembers sitting at the bus stop after work, cheap headphones playing an anesthetized version of Chasing Pavements, _should I give up?_

If Martin could go back in time three years and tell himself that not only would Jon listen to the playlist, but he would come up and wrap his arms around Martin’s neck half a song in, while Martin was putting the rest of their instant mac and cheese in the fridge, he’d never have believed it. It’s too good, too specifically out of Martin’s embarrassing daydreams, to be real.

“I didn’t say we should dance.” But the words come out so tenderly that he might as well have just agreed with Jon.

“Yes you did! You told me you used to dance alone to this. What did you think I’d do?”

“Make fun of me?” Martin offers.

He’s sure that at one point in time, Jon would have made fun of him, but now Martin has Jon admitting his own embarrassing secrets just to be kissed for them. It’s an absurd amount of power. If he’d known all it took to hear about Jon’s punk phase was a press of his lips against Jon's cheek, sweet like a first love, he’d have done it years ago. From what Jon’s said, it might have gone better than he once imagined. The slow inversion of Martin’s entire world keeps making him lightheaded, like he’s stood up too fast.

“Me?” Jon draws the word out. “I’d never. Sounds like you’re thinking of someone else.”

If Martin had known, three years ago. He’d have risked anything for this. He’d have died and come back to life in Jon’s place, if it meant he could have this. He’d have faced down every entity at once.

“I’m not thinking about anyone else.”

“You’re not?” Jon sounds tipsy and surprised.

“Obviously not, Jon. _Obviously_.” 

“Sorry, I just.” Jon takes a deep breath, sways back and forth in a way that doesn't seem intentional. “It's a lot to get used to.”

“Tell me about it. Here I thought my boss hated me for years and it turns out he just wanted to take me on a romantic holiday.”

It’s not even that good of a joke, but Jon throws his head back and laughs. It's a barking, inelegant thing, surprise as much as mirth. Martin's veins stop pumping blood and fill instead with love for Jon. He's never heard this particular laugh before, but he's immediately addicted to it. The crinkles at the corners of Jon's eyes are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

“Not exactly the first date anyone would hope for,” Jon says. “You should raise your standards.”

Martin's still caught up in the way Jon's grin flashed onto his face, the sudden lightning-bolt brightness, the fact that he, Martin Blackwood, _made_ that grin. 

“My standards are fine, thank you.” Better than fine. He dares anyone to see Jon and not be impressed. “Plus, this isn't our first date.”

“It isn't? Could have fooled me.”

“The worms, Jon.”

“Oh god, you don't really—Martin, that doesn't count! I didn't even know I liked you.”

Martin bites his lip to keep from smiling. “We got to know each other.”

He remembers the way that, even in his terror, he was unable to stop himself from being glad it was him and Jon. If he did die, well, the sight of Jon hovering over him, the worried twist of his mouth, the rumpled hair—it wouldn't have been the worst way to go. And besides, Jon sat down with his thigh pressed to Martin's thigh and really looked at him, turned the whole floodlight of his attention on Martin at once. Asked him, a little desperate, if he was a ghost.

Jon doesn't seem to be remembering that bit. His forehead wrinkles up.

“You got to know the worst side of me, you mean! That can't be our first date. It's too…” he gestures to the air, obviously trying to come up with the correct, overly dramatic wording. “Lopsided. You came out all heroic, saving my life, and I was just a prick.”

Jon had been a little bit of a prick, but he’d also been terrified, honest, stubborn. He'd been Jon. 

“Heroic? I like the sound of that.” Now Martin's unable to stop his smile from creeping over his face. 

“It wasn't a date.”

“It was. Too late to take it back now.”

Jon sighs, but he can’t even keep a straight face through the sigh. The corners of his mouth keep twitching up. Martin's never seen him like this before—but it should have been obvious that Jon's happiness spills out of him into his surroundings, just like his anger. Just like his fear. Jon tries to cover it up all the time, but he's the most startlingly alive person Martin has ever met. 

Jon clears his throat. “Can I get a do-over?” he says, a little hoarse. 

His finger traces Martin's ear cautiously, like he's committing it to memory just in case Martin says no. He looks almost nervous, despite the fact that they've spent the last few hours as immersed in each other as two people can be.

There's no way on earth Martin would say no. 

“As many as you want,” he promises. 

He reaches up to run a thumb along Jon's jaw. Jon shivers and leans into the touch, so Martin fits his whole palm in the lovely, angular space between Jon's jawline and his shoulder. When Jon closes his eyes, he looks like he's trying to push something out into the air, some words he doesn't know how to speak.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs finally. “You deserve—”

“Stop.” 

What Martin deserves is to be thoroughly happy in this moment, and for Jon to be happy along with him. What he deserves are Jon's eyes on him again.

“Well, it’s true.”

“Don't do that right now. We're having a _moment_. Besides, I know what I want.”

He means it to sound confident, reassuring. It's the truth. Ever since he met Jon, he's wanted nothing on earth more than to kiss him, to talk to him, to hold his full focus for just a second. To stand nearby, even. He feels like he came into existence wanting Jon.

But Jon draws back ever so slightly. He doesn't pull out of Martin's arms, but he studies him with a wary melancholy. His face draws inwards like it does when he's about to apologize.

“Jon? What's wrong?” Martin wonders what Jon could possibly have to apologize for _now_ , then experiences a brief moment of panic when he imagines Jon's about to tell him it was all a ruse, _sorry Martin, I needed you to trust me_ —before he remembers Jon's never successfully performed a ruse in his life. 

Jon sighs and shifts from one foot to the other. His ears are pink at the tips.

“You know that I’m not very—that I don't exactly do…wanting? Not like some people do. I—I mean it's not never, you understand, it's just that most of the time I don't…not on me. On, on other people sometimes, yes. But I’m not as invested, personally, in that type of thing. So if you want…that. I'm not the best person for it.”

“What?” 

Martin’s completely confused for about five seconds, before he realizes the only thing Jon could be _this_ embarrassed about. And then he realizes Jon thinks he’d leave him because—god. 

“Oh! I’m not talking about sex, Jon. I'm just talking about you.”

“Me?”

Now it's Jon's turn to look baffled. The idea that it's this strange Martin might just _like_ Jon hurts like a phantom limb, an echo of Martin’s own past loneliness. 

“Yes. I want this.” He kisses Jon slowly, cupping his jaw to hold him in place. Making sure Jon knows that kissing him is about loving him, about trying to tell him even half of it. “And the arguing. And the dancing. And…and just, all of you. God even—even that really ridiculous glaring thing you do and your terrible taste in documentaries and the ten million eyes you apparently have in your sleep.” 

Martin flushes. He’s just babbling now. He didn't mean to say all of that out loud.

“Don't tell anyone I said that,” he adds. “The eyes bit.”

“Oh. I...I won't.”

“I’m still not on board with traumatizing strangers.”

“Obviously not.”

“But the eyes thing itself, is you know, fine. I don't mind.”

“I—Okay.”

Jon hides his face in Martin's shoulder, even though it's too late. Martin’s already seen the expression he's wearing. It’s the one that makes him look ten years younger, uncertain and hopeful and happy all at once. Martin's desperately fond of it.

As Jon’s uneven breath flutters out against his collarbone, Martin wishes for a million moments just like this. He knows he might not get them. He knows their life is dangerous—that even if they did escape the Lonely, there are at least thirteen other fears full of monsters that thirst for their blood. But he wants. He wants and wants and wants. He wants decades together, sees them so clearly in his mind that he thinks he could materialize them. He could pull their future out of thin air with the force of his longing.

Jon must be thinking something similar because after a long moment, he sighs and rests most of his weight against Martin. Like he trusts him. Like their bodies are a leaning tower, two melded parts that can only move together. 

“I'm happy here. Even with everything that’s happened,” Jon says. But his voice is quiet, bittersweet. “I’m so happy with you.” He presses a kiss to Martin’s chin, to the side of his ear. He’s got sloppy aim and half-lidded eyes. “It feels like it could all end any second.”

“It’s not going to end.”

Because Martin will kill anyone who tries to end it.

Jon sighs. His breath is warm against Martin's neck. “It might. The world, I mean. Not you and me.”

Martin knew what Jon meant, but his heart still flips when he hears _you and me_ from Jon's mouth. You and me. You and me. His brain keeps repeating it, a mantra. Something to hold against the fog and the flame and the darkness. 

“If it does, we'll restart it again,” Martin says. “From the beginning.”

Jon squints up at him and frowns. “Does it have to be the very beginning?”

When Martin laughs, Jon’s eyes trace the line of his mouth. He looks a little dazed, as dazed as Martin feels.

“Fine. From the middle then.”

“How about from right now?” Jon suggests.

He's looking at Martin so earnestly that it hurts. When Martin tips his head down to brush his mouth against Jon's, he finds that Jon is already reaching for him. Jon kisses him, softly enough that they might just be breathing each other's air, and Martin feels unwound. A clock with all its ticking gears laid out on the table, stolen from time. 

“Okay. From now."

The music plays on; _don't go changing,_ the singer croons, even though they did, they are, and they will again. How odd the fantasy is, compared with the flesh and blood reality, the push-pull rhythm of loving and being loved.

They stand there in each other’s arms for a long, long time.

Outside, thunder rolls in the distance—the storm is miles away. And as the night approaches, every defiant star winks into being, one by one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Your kind comments have been a true source of inspiration--and made me want to actually edit. If you've made it this far, bless you. Here's to sappy fic as a way of coping with life, retail, and the magnus archives season 5. We truly do listen to a podcast


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